


something borrowed

by helveticaneue



Series: now don't you look good sucking american dick [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bondage, Light daddy kink, M/M, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 15:48:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11672220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helveticaneue/pseuds/helveticaneue
Summary: “God, how are you so good at tying people to beds?” Dubi asks before he can stop himself.Jon chuckles into his skin. “Boy Scouts of America, bitch.”





	something borrowed

**Author's Note:**

> This is quite possibly the most self indulgent thing I've ever written. It's inspired by the hockey group photo from Cam Atkinson's wedding, in which Dubi and Jon Quick are standing next to each other. The google doc is lovingly titled "american assholes."
> 
> Thanks so much to Maria for the title and for looking this over, and to Steph for adding the approximately 500 commas I missed. 
> 
> If you aren't familiar with Brandon Dubinsky, there are only five people who call him by his first name. I am not one of those people, hence why he's referred to as Dubi throughout the fic.

Dubi had resolved to not hook up with anyone at Cam's wedding, but Jon Quick delights in breaking people's resolve. Rather than appearing underdressed amidst the sea of suits in a polo and khakis, he makes Dubi's groomsman suit (black, well cut, with a white shirt and black tie, cream boutonnière pinned to his lapel) feel overdressed. 

Jon has an effect, Dubi has learned, where he gets so overwhelmingly cocky about wanting you that it makes you want him. When he turns it on you, it's deadly. He's seen it happen before, but he's never been the subject, like he's sure he is now. 

Dubi’s standing by the wall, considering the dance floor when Jon saunters up, looking much too casual and just as smug as ever. 

“I've seen you looking,” Jon says. 

“Beautiful wedding, isn't it?”

Jon grabs Dubi’s tie and tugs, until they're chest to chest, foreheads nearly touching, Jon’s breath hot on Dubi’s lips. “You've been looking.”

“No,” Dubi denies, but badly. “I haven't been.”

Jon reaches up, starts to loosen his tie. “Don’t lie to me,” he says. “It's not becoming.”

“I should care about that, why?” Jon’s pulling the tie apart now, unknotting it with the practiced ease of one who wears a tie as often as hockey players do. It slithers around Dubi’s neck, off his shoulders. Jon rolls it up and puts it in his pocket.

“Hey–”

“You'll get it back,” Jon promises. “If you're good.” 

Dubi swallows, and Jon brushes his adam's apple with his thumb, still looking unbearably smug. He starts to unbutton Brandon’s shirt, just the top few buttons, like Brandon usually wears his dress shirts. “There, now don't you look pretty.”

They stand there for a moment, Dubi’s throat feeling too exposed, his tie in the pocket of Jon Quick’s fucking khakis. Cam calling for them to take pictures is a welcome reprieve, allowing Dubi to get away from Jon’s dark, piercing eyes.

Jon stands too close during pictures, reaching down to grope Dubi’s ass. After, he grins at Dubi and says, “I've put in my appearance, time for us to head out.”

Dubi sputters, says, “What makes you think I'm going with you.”

He hates the look Jon gives him in return. “Don't kid yourself, sweetheart,” he condescends. 

Dubi’s infuriated. If he was on the ice he would swing. But he's not, he's at his friend’s wedding, so he just retorts, “Asshole.” 

“But you still wanna fuck me,” Jon sing-songs. Dubi hates his fucking confidence, how they're so much alike, how Jon has figured out how to get under his skin so fucking quickly and how, for the first time, really, Dubi feels a step behind and unable to catch up.

“Fine,” he says. “Let's get out of here before anyone sees.”

Jon puts a hand on his back on the way out, stands too close in the elevator, shoves him through the door of his hotel room and slams it behind them. Dubi rounds on him, but before he can say anything– “I want to tie you up.”

The words he had planned, bitter, biting, get stuck in his throat. He can see Jon noticing, taking it as a personal victory. A flash runs down Dubi’s spine and straight to his dick. “Okay,” he says. 

Jon gets him on the bed, naked, on his back, wrists crossed and bound with his own tie. 

“I almost want to gag you,” Jon says. “I’d like seeing you shut the fuck up for once. But I think I’d miss your bratty little mouth.” 

“Fuck you,” Dubi says. “You're such a fucking asshole.”

"Uh uh uh, babe. Don't be mean. Do you want Daddy to spank you?" Jon mocks. His eyes are narrowed at Dubi and he can't possibly miss the shiver that runs through his whole body. He grins, smirks really. Dubi hates to admit how good it looks on him. "Oh, you do want that, huh?"

"Not if you keep calling yourself Daddy," Dubi bites out, unwilling to face the hot curl of pleasure/shame in his stomach at the thought. "You can spank me, though."

"Oh I  _ can _ , can I? No, baby, I won't be spanking you unless you  _ beg _ for it." 

Dubi laughs. He’s shaky, but still clinging to a little bit of dignity. "Well then. You'll be waiting a pretty long time for that." 

Jon hmms, looking utterly, disgustingly confident.

He straddles Dubi’s hips and leans in to kiss him, soft and slow. It's almost sweet. It's too nice, and Dubi hates it even more than Jon’s mocking. He wants to be wrecked and shaking and sobbing on the bed, not treated like he's delicate, like this is romantic. 

Dubi bites Jon’s lip in protest and Jon climbs off. Dubi thinks finally, maybe, as Jon instructs him to get on his knees. He does it, but not without shooting some expletives at Jon. He's not going to give up without a fight. 

Jon gets off the bed and Dubi watches as he goes to his suitcase and rummages around before pulling out a tie. 

“Seriously? You brought a fucking tie and you still wore that to the wedding?”

Jon’s still dressed while Dubi’s naked, and he's finally figured out how Jon made him feel that way when he was still in his suit. Clothed or nude, Jon looks at him the same, as a challenge that he enjoys. 

“I didn't bring the tie to wear,” Jon says. “Just like I didn't need to get a hotel room when I live half an hour away. I didn't know it would be you, but I knew someone would be tied to this bed by the end of the night.”

There’s a little bit of what is probably shame, deep in his gut. Jon unties his wrists then fastens them to the bedposts so his arms are spread apart. It's not comfortable, but it's becoming pretty clear to Dubi that it's not supposed to be. 

Instead of spanking him, Jon just trails his fingers over Dubi’s ass and thighs – light, teasing touches. He leans in and Dubi can feel his warm breath on his skin. 

Dubi strains against the bonds, but they don't budge even a little.

“God, how are you so good at tying people to beds?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Jon chuckles into his skin. “Boy Scouts of America, bitch.” 

He presses a kiss to the small of Dubi’s back and that? That is fucking it.

“Hit me,” Dubi gasps. “Just please fucking hit me.”

“That's what I like to hear,” John says, sounding smug. “How many do you think. My number or yours?”

Dubi twists to glare at him. “Just fucking hit me already.”

“Mine, then. Count ‘em.”

Dubi braces himself for the first hit, but he still isn't expecting it. He yelps and goes sprawling forward. Jon sighs, in what sounds like disapproval.

“One,” Dubi says, scrambling back to his knees. “That's one.” 

The second and third and fourth are better, not because Jon hits any less hard but because Dubi shifts so his knees and feet are planted solidly, digging into the mattress. He bites his lip, trying to stay quiet, so Jon can’t tell how much it hurts, or worse, how much he likes it. He’d prey on that, mock Dubi for it, and Dubi may be the one tied up on his hands and knees getting spanked, but that doesn’t mean he can show Jon a sliver of weakness.

Five catches his balls and he jolts forward again, with a whimper. 

There’s no rhythm to it. Some of the hits come in quick succession, raining down three in a row in the same spot where his ass meets his thigh, until Dubi’s eyes are prickling with tears. 

Tears spill out and he buries his face in the pillows so Jon won’t see, “Seventeen” coming out muffled. 

Jon grabs him by the hair, drags his face back up out of the pillows, says, “I couldn’t quite hear that,” then: “You put so much fucking gel in your hair, what the fuck.”

Dubi grits his teeth, grinds out, “Seventeen.” 

“Good boy,” Jon says. He walks away. Dubi can hear him in the bathroom, washing his hands. His face burns, though not quite as much as his ass.

He returns, greeting Dubi with a wet, stinging slap on the thigh. It’s not too hard, though, and “That one doesn’t count.”

Dubi sucks in a breath, steels himself. He has fifteen more to go. His cock is growing steadily harder, and it’s clear Jon notices from the way he runs one finger down it, feather-light like before. Then his hand draws away abruptly and Dubi chokes on his breath when another hit lands, hard. He doesn’t get to count before nineteen, twenty, twenty one, and he slurs them all out together when Jon pauses. 

His ass is stinging, his face is wet from tears, and at some point he’s bitten down so hard on his lip that he can taste blood. 

Then twenty two, and Dubi sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. Twenty three, he grits his teeth. Twenty four, he presses his tongue against his teeth. 

Jon makes him wait. He braces himself for twenty five that doesn’t come, and doesn’t come, and then, when he shifts slightly – It’s not particularly harder than Jon’s been hitting. There’s nothing new. But this time Dubi can’t hold back a sob. 

Jon rubs his ass, but it can't be mistaken for kindness, the way it aggravates his reddened skin. “Only seven more, and then we're done. Almost done.”

Dubi finds himself nodding furiously. Jon takes it easy on him with the next three, slaps to his thighs that still sting but are nothing compared to some of the blows Jon's been landing. When twenty nine lands he screams but manages to stay in place on his knees. 

Left cheek. “Just two more.”

Right cheek. “Just one more.”

Finally. Not the hardest hit, but Dubi takes it a little to the back of his thighs and mostly to his balls. He screams again, chokes out “Th-thirty two,” and sags to the bed. 

Dubi is shaking, sobbing. It's perfect, just what he wanted, his ass stinging and bruises undoubtedly forming. Jon starts up the feather light touches again, but rather than being a terrible tease, this time his trailing fingers set Dubi’s nerves alight.

“Can I fuck you like this, babe? Or do you want me to untie you?”

Something distant in Dubi wants to make fun of the soft way Jon says babe, almost caring. But it's not important now, so he brushes it away, chanting, “Like this, like this, like this,” clinging to the bedposts like a lifeline. 

Jon pulls at his ankles so he's lying down, stretched out and no longer on his knees. It makes his abused skin tighten like a reminder.

“Spread your legs,” Jon says.

“Fuck you,” Dubi replies, because he doesn't know how not to fight. But he does spread them, when Jon slaps his ass, certainly not as hard as before but painful on the forming bruises.

Jon opens him up carefully but not kindly. It's more practiced and methodical, working towards an end goal of opening Dubi up rather than making him feel good. 

It's not like he needs Jon to get him any more turned on; he's been hard and leaking ever since Jon first hit him. Jon jabs at his prostate, mean, and Dubi makes a sound between a gasp and a scream, air punched out of him.

Jon rolls on a condom and shoves in unkindly, setting up a brutal rhythm, shoving Dubi hard into the bed.

It's quick and dirty and it's not long before Dubi is coming, dick trapped between his stomach and the sheets. It's not much longer after that before Jon pulls out and strips off the condom to come all over Dubi’s ass. 

“You're like a fucking dog,” Dubi says. “Gotta mark your territory?” 

“You let me,” Jon says. “What does that make you, my bitch?"

Dubi kicks out at him and Jon dodges, laughing. He makes quick work of the knots holding Dubi to the bed, says, “Stay there for a sec, I'm gonna grab something to clean you up.”

He's being almost too nice as he wipes Dubi clean with a warm, wet washcloth and helps him stretch out his arms and shoulders, which are a little sore. But Dubi appreciates it and keeps up enough snark to finally feel comfortable again, less like jumping out of his own skin when Jon so much as looks at him. 

“You staying?” Jon asks.

Dubi doesn't give him an affirmative, just says, “I get to be the big spoon.” 

“Yeah,” John says. “Sure you do."

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up to talk about Brandon Dubinsky: [tumblr](https://brandondubinskys.tumblr.com) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/nikucherov)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [i don't know if you're looking for romance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14237121) by [blamefincham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamefincham/pseuds/blamefincham)




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